


Jibcon Made Me Do It

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Jus in Bello Convention, Love Confessions, M/M, Polyamory, Schmoop, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jensen still doesn't know how it happened. How Misha went from being that weird part-time angel with horrid taste in sweaters to one of Jensen's best friends, like, ever, not to mention his regular fuck buddy.





	Jibcon Made Me Do It

**Author's Note:**

> I deleted this a couple months ago, just reposting so I can orphan it.

From the moment the hotel room door clicks shut, it takes Jensen approximately 0.2 seconds to spin Misha around and pin him to the coffee table, the backs of his knees knocking against the wood. Jensen seals his mouth to Misha’s jaw, places open-mouthed kisses along his stubble as he works the buttons of that stupid pea coat. 

“Fucking finally,” he mumbles between kisses. “Got you alone.”

Misha huffs out a laugh. “And here I thought you actually wanted me to show you that Tuscany tourism book.”

“Mmm. Maybe later.”

Jensen shucks off the coat and immediately gets to work on the button-down underneath. Vaguely, he feels Misha’s hands on him, then a fist in his hair dragging his head up for a sloppy kiss. 

It’s been a long day. 

He smooths his hands over Misha’s torso, then his arms, feeling the muscles working under his skin as Misha slides off the shirt. “You’ve been working out.”

“You like?”

“God, yeah. Fucking hot.” 

“You’re not so bad yourself, Jackles.”

“So hard,” Jensen goes on, tracing more kisses down Misha’s neck and collarbone, “keeping my hands to myself, when you look like  _ that _ .”

Misha snorts. “You know, you can’t just flatter me into doing whatever you want.”

“Yeah, well.” He pulls back, yanks off his own shirt and pulls their hips together. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”

“Fuck you,” he says, no real bite in his words. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoyed me humiliating myself in front of hundreds of people.”

“Who says I didn’t? Like it when you blush.”

“You asshole.” Misha grips Jensen’s hips and spins him around, then falls to his knees between Jensen’s legs. “If you want me to blow you, just  _ ask _ .”

“Yeah? How’s this--you’re smart, you think on your feet; you give amazing blowjobs and moan like a fucking pornstar in bed--”

“Shut up,” Misha says, yanking down Jensen’s zipper.

“--and I gotta say, I really like your dick--I mean, that’s quality equipment you got there, Mish--”

“Shut. Up.” 

Jensen smirks and opens his mouth to keep going, but finds his words cut off when Misha unceremoniously pulls down his underwear and swallows down half of his cock in one fluid motion. “ _ Fuck! _ ”

He swears Misha actually  _ smiles _ , if that’s possible. He can see it in those storm-blue eyes, peering up at Jensen, the skin around them crinkling with amusement.

When it’s Jensen’s turn, he shoves Misha back on the bed and crawls over his body for a long, possessive kiss as he slides Misha’s pants off his hips. He takes his time, presses warm kisses down his torso, in the dips next to sharp hip bones, between his thighs. 

“C’mon, just fucking  _ do _ it,” Misha growls, his hands fisted in the sheets. 

“Patience, grasshopper.” He pats Misha’s thigh reassuringly, then presses a soft kiss to the tip of his dick. 

Given the unfortunate existence of his gag reflex, Jensen can’t deepthroat quite like Misha can; but what he lacks in that department he makes up in finesse and simple knowledge of what gets Misha going. Five years of blowing the same guy does that. 

They make out lazily in the aftermath, feeling each other up, re-memorizing the skin they haven’t touched in over two weeks. Only when it starts to get a little too intimate for comfort does Jensen roll away and slide off the bed to pick up his discarded clothes. Misha makes a small, disappointed noise, but doesn’t protest.

He snorts when he spots the label on Misha’s coat. “Burberry? That where you’ve been getting all this stuff?”

“Yeah. A friend dragged me there a couple weeks ago.”

“A  _ friend _ , huh?”

“Yeah, a  _ friend _ .”

Jensen glances over at a semi-naked Misha. He’s got this leisurely little smile, like there’s nothing in the world that he’d rather be doing than watching Jensen putter around a hotel room.  

“Don’t worry,” Misha adds with a wink; “he doesn’t have green eyes or hot-as-fuck bowlegs.”

Jensen stares at his feet, smiling despite himself. Lots of people want him--they always have, since he was a teenager--but it’s nice to know that Misha wants him, too.

They each get dressed, at their own pace. He’s just about to head out Jensen stops to share one last, languid kiss, curling his fingers in that feather-soft hair as he does.

“Wish I could’ve fucked you,” he murmurs against Misha’s lips. 

“Mmm. Yeah. Maybe later. Just give me…” Misha checks his watch. “Hmm. How’s after dinner sound?” 

“Perfect.” 

“Alright. It’s a date.” 

He meets Misha’s suggestive smirk, then leaves, before he can persuade himself not to. 

 

Jensen still doesn’t know how it happened. How Misha went from being that weird part-time angel with horrid taste in sweaters to one of Jensen’s best friends, like, ever, not to mention his regular fuck buddy. 

He’s pretty sure it was somewhere between “What is he  _ doing? _ Did he even audition?” and “Okay, maybe I’m not as straight as I thought I was,” but definitely before “Please, Mish, just  _ fuck  _ me already, goddammit!” Somewhere between the first time Misha made him cry with laughter and that heart-to-heart he and Danneel had after he admitted to drunkenly making out with the guy in Misha’s Vancouver apartment. Somewhere between “Huh, guess there are angels on Supernatural now,” and this.

Sitting across from him at dinner, playing footsie.

And he’s certain that, despite the potential complications inherent in their... _ arrangement _ , he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

The fans are right. Misha’s eyes really are that blue. 

He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that staring into a partner’s eyes while basking in one’s post-orgasmic glow is probably about five metric shit-tons too intimate for a fuck buddy; but he can’t bring himself to care, not now. Maybe he’ll angst about it later on the plane ride back to the States. Yeah, that should be enough penance for his sins. 

Not that this is sinning, anyway. There was nothing sinful about the way he just fucked Misha into the mattress, his ankles hooked behind Jensen’s head--flexible bastard--as Jensen pounded his prostate every other stroke. That shit was beautiful.

For some reason, Misha reaches out to card through Jensen’s sweat-spiked hair. He smiles. “Hey, Jensen.” 

“Hello, Dmitri.”

Misha’s smile widens, turning broad and gummy and  _ affectionate _ , and the familiarity hits him like a punch in the gut. It’s the same smile Misha offered up five years ago on a sunny, late-summer afternoon in Vancouver, probably in response to some quirky comment of Jensen’s; the same smile that told Jensen in no uncertain terms that he was a goner, that this was inevitable from day one, dorky sweaters or not. 

Misha’s long, piano-player fingers trail through his hair, down his cheek and neck and across his shoulders, all the way to his ticklish sides and soft belly. He squeezes the pocket of pudge with a toothy grin, making Jensen roll his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen says, cheeks burning. “We’re not all bicycle-touring freaks, I get it.” 

“No, I like your tummy,” he assures him, adding a playful slap for good measure. “It’s hot.”

“ _ Hot _ . Yeah, okay.”

Misha chuckles softly; and for a moment they’re silent, content to ignore the elephant in the room.

“Hey,” Misha ventures after a while; “didn’t you call me  _ babe? _ ”

Jensen freezes. “Did I?” Goddammit. He did.  _ So good, babe, so fucking perfect _ \--“Uh. Sorry about that. Must’ve been one of those, y’know,  _ throes of passion _ things--”

“Shh. It’s okay. I liked it.”

He meets Misha’s eyes again, and realizes, with a start, that he’s about to say something incredibly stupid, something like  _ whenever I see someone with blue eyes, I think about you _ , or whatever; so instead, Jensen rolls over and stares at the ceiling.

“I love you,” he says.

“No shit.”

He freezes, then sighs.  _ It’s probably for the better _ . He’s halfway out of bed, peering around the dimly-lit room for any sign of clothes, when a firm hand grasps his forearm.

“Hey,” Misha says. Jensen looks at him, against his better judgment. “C’mon,  _ babe _ . Why don’t you take off your coat, stay awhile?”

It’s then, just looking at him, that Jensen realizes--this is nothing new. Nothing has to change, not really. 

So he climbs back into bed and pulls Misha in for a kiss. A silent apology. They smile dopey smiles at each other, silently laughing; because this was inevitable, and how could they ever have been so stupid?

“Dunno what coat you’re talking about.” 


End file.
